


searching for a heart of gold

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Multi, Tom Petty - Freeform, Touring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur, Ari, and Yusuf are a good-not-great bar band, Dom is their manager, and the biggest band in the world is called Limbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	searching for a heart of gold

They were Extraction, and no one really knew why. They’d been less-than-sober when they’d named the band, but it’d stuck and no one really wanted to change. So when they met their new manager, some hotshot guy who’d made a fortune in architecture, and he came in with the new name, the reaction was less-than-enthusiastic.

“What does it even mean?” Ari asked, her face streaked with sweat from rehearsal. She’d missed a spot of green paint behind her left ear, and her hair was lank and heavy in the heat. Her basement was a great rehearsal space, but the air conditioning was shittier than Arthur liked.

“Inception? It doesn’t even mean anything. It’s not a real word.” Behind the drums, Yusuf surreptitiously texted, fingers flying. “I think he means conception.”

The new manager smiled thinly. “No, not conc-”

Arthur interrupted, “What’s wrong with Extraction? It’s our name, and it works fine.”

Then they all talked over each other for a while, until the new manager threw a half-full beer at Yusuf’s head. That shut them up.

“What the fuck, man?” Ari was pissed, and rightly so: it’d been her beer, and her wall.

“Dude, not cool.” Yusuf looked as shaken up as he ever really got.

“Listen to me, then. Inception means a beginning. It’s big and it’s shiny and scary and new, and you three are going to have to work together,” he brought his hands together, index fingers pointing, like a teacher with a class full of first-graders, “to make it happen. It’s a new start for this group.” He began to gesture grandly and stride around, and Arthur felt the strong and sudden urge to trip him. “Inception is a team, gang, it’s no more playing in Sal’s Bar three nights a week and scraping by on tips and free beer.” He squinted at each of them in turn, hands on his hips. “Do you have day jobs?”

“Arthur’s an accountant.” Ari was sketching, half-listening.

“I’m not an accountant, I’m an auditor. They’re different things.”

“You work with numbers and shit, what’s the difference?”

“Whatever.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Ari is a painter and a student.”

“Going to school for art?” The new manager ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

“No, I’m going to school for fucking _geology_. Yes, art.” She glared at him and her pencil moved quickly and precisely across her sketchpad. If Arthur had been a betting man, he’d have given great odds on it being a cruelly accurate portrait of the man, complete with the odd flatness of his features and the self-important way he strutted through their rehearsal space – which was really Ari’s basement, but it only ever saw use when they played. Or drank and pretended to play.

“And Yusuf?”

They all looked at each other, unsure. “Um. Is this, like, confidential?” Ari paused in her sketch.

He looked confused. “What?”

“No, um, Yusuf is…Yusuf is sort of a gardener, I guess?”

“I prefer ‘chemist,’ actually,” Yusuf piped up, still texting furiously.

The new guy wasn’t stupid. He put two and two together fairly quickly, and subsequently freaked the fuck out. “You cannot deal drugs while we are in this, okay? No more! If the press finds out—“

“What press?” Arthur laughed.

Ari chimed in, “It’s fucking _Aberdeen_ , dude, no one gives a shit.”

“But what about next year, when you’re headlining in Seattle? What then?”

“We’ll still be in Oregon, the land of hippies, and no one will even notice.” Yusuf’s usual calm demeanor had not slipped, but Arthur sensed that the conversation was reaching a problematic point.

Arthur broke in. “Look, guys, it’s not the worst name, right? And it’s not like there’s that many bands in Aberdeen, people will still know it’s us. Let’s just try it, all right?” Smiling, the new manager made as if to clap Arthur on the shoulder. “No, listen, here’s the rest of that idea. We try it. If we don’t like it after one week here at Sal’s, we go back to Extraction and you go back to whatever it is you do.” Arthur grinned and held out a hand. “Deal?”

“Sounds acceptable.”

As they shook, Arthur remembered his manners. “What’s your name, again?” In the office during weekdays, Arthur was much better at being an adult. Hanging out with Yusuf and Ari, playing songs everyone loved, drinking and shaking his ass – it made it hard to remember, sometimes, how to act his age.

“Dom. Dom Cobb, pleasure doing business with you.”

\---

                  That night, Sal’s was a little packed, a few new faces in amongst the regulars. “It’s covers night, everybody, so get ready to sing along to a few of your favorite tunes.” Arthur grinned at the applause and cheers, and gave Ari the nod.

                  She was really, really good, and normally Arthur would think of a more descriptive way to say it, but she was just too talented to waste words on. Covers night was everyone’s favorite, because their original songs weren’t all that great and besides, they always started with “Lithium,” and everyone loved to hear Ari play that bass line. She closed her eyes, and Arthur couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped his throat.

                  But then it was time to sing, and Arthur had to focus. He was a mediocre singer, but Ari was worse and Yusuf was tone-deaf, so it was his job. Guitar, he was fine – not great, exactly, but definitely above average. His singing, on the other hand, was just so-so, and it always rankled him a bit. But Nirvana, well, he could talk and yell through most of their catalogue, and if he failed to live up to Kurt’s example, so did everyone else in the world. As for Yusuf, he was getting a touch antsy – the drum part on “Lithium” was nowhere near a challenge, and Yusuf hated being bored more than Arthur would have expected from a drug dealer. As they ended “Lithium,” the crowd went as wild as the crowd at Sal’s ever went.

                  To Arthur’s surprise, Ari started right into “Hard Day’s Night.” They rarely did Beatles covers, since Arthur was the only one who ever sang and the harmonies were so important. But the crowd seemed to enjoy it, and besides Yusuf needed to play something fun. Arthur made a mental note to thank Ari for noticing; he tried to be as attentive as he could, but she’d always been more observant than him. That artist’s eye, he supposed.

                  They’d now played a song for Ari and a song for Yusuf, and Arthur preemptively shouted, “Now we’re playing something for me,” and dove into “American Girl.” Petty was another singer he couldn’t hope to emulate, but he loved playing this song. The regulars, as they were wont to do, joined in on the harmonies and did the backing vocal parts. This was his favorite part of playing at Sal’s: the regulars filled in the gaps. They’d recorded a live album once, a million years ago, to help Ari pay for rent, and they’d had a hassle getting everyone in the crowd’s name: the regulars sang enough of the harmonies that they all got credited in the liner notes as “backing vocalists.” Most people who’d bought one had done so because their name was in there, and Arthur grinned at the memory as he played the last rippling notes of the song.

                  “Any requests?” Ari was shuffling her feet, not bored but ready to move on.

                  “‘Touch Me,’” came the shout from the crowd, and Arthur felt more than heard Ari fire back,

                  “Nah, you’re not my type.”

                  It was an old joke, barely even funny anymore, but it was part of the patter they’d built, part of the rapport that had grown over the years they’d been playing here and around town.

                  “Any requests that might actually get answered?” That was Yusuf, swiping a hand through his unruly curls. He was itching to play, Arthur could see it, and that made him nervous. They were all a little restless tonight, for no real reason. He’d have to figure out a closer to wipe them out, or they’d want to go out afterwards. It was a Wednesday, Arthur couldn’t go out. He had that huge file in the morning, and a meeting at three with the new hire, and—

                  But Ari had apparently heard a request she liked, and luckily it was something Arthur knew. That it was “Halo,” and he had nowhere near the range, well. That was beside the point. The new faces looked surprised, and the regulars were chuckling, and it was all good and perfect and difficult and fun. Yusuf was adding touches in the background to make his part more interesting, and Ari was ripping through the melody, and the crowd was clapping along, and Arthur couldn’t stop smiling.

\---

                  “You guys aren’t half bad,” Dom said as he sipped a beer.

                  Ari nearly snarled; Yusuf’s hand on her shoulder seemed like a tether holding her back.

                  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Cobb.” Arthur tilted his head back and forth, trying to work out the knot of tension that had built up there. “Hey Ari, we need to pick a new closer for next week, I think they’re getting a little over Gnarls.”

                  “Yeah, yeah. It’s fun, though.” Ari chugged the last of her drink and nodded curtly in Dom’s direction. “See you kids later.”

                  Yusuf watched her leave, and then turned on Dom. “You should learn some manners, dude. Ari’ll kill you if you act like that again.”

                  Arthur nodded. “She really will. She’s intense.”

                  A long pause. Dom seemed to be evaluating them, looking for something. “Want to go out? There’s a band playing at the Saito in,” he checked his watch, “an hour and a half. We’ll make it easily if we leave now.”

                  “No.” Arthur frowned. “I have a real job, I can’t drive to Olympia and watch a band play.”

                  “And besides, we don’t like you,” Yusuf piped up.

                  “Wait, who’s playing? Are you talking about Limbo?” They turned as a unit. Ari had apparently come back into the bar without any of them noticing. She shrugged, smiled, her hair dripping wet. “It’s raining, I don’t want to walk home. Limbo’s playing the Saito, right?”

                  Dom grinned, slow and easy, and Arthur sighed. They were in for a drive, and Arthur was going to be a terrible employee tomorrow.

                  Limbo was this British dance band Ari was really into for some reason – they weren’t that great, but their live shows were supposed to be ridiculous, and their singer was, Arthur had to admit, astounding. They had some big single out, “Am I Dreaming,” or something like that, and Ari had been angling for weeks to get Arthur to learn it so they could cover it. But it wasn’t possible: the Limbo guy had this amazing voice, and besides, the song was keyboard-heavy and none of them played piano. So there was no way to tell Ari no, not about this. Not tonight.

                  “Let’s go, then. I’m the most sober, I’ll drive. Ari, you sit with Yusuf. No punching. Dom, we’re taking your car.” Arthur herded them into Dom’s SUV over Dom’s protests. “You are an asshole, and we’re using your car. Questions? I didn’t think so. Great.”

\---

                  “They’re amazing, aren’t they?” Ari yelled into Arthur’s ear. They’d arrived too late to be in the pit, but they still had a good view: the singer crouched over keyboards, the bassist skinny like a scarecrow and playing like a robot, a gorgeous woman shredding on guitar, and a bland smear of nothing on drums. The drums were clearly, obviously the weakest point.

                  “Sloppy,” Yusuf hollered at Ari, personal pride rankling him. “He’s got no imagination, his technique is shit. Needs to go back to school, rank amateur.”

                  Ari frowned and shouted, “Guitarist is good, right Arthur?” She grinned at him, a shark smile, and he had to admit it.

                  “Yeah. And that guy,” he pointed to the singer, who was wailing through the song Arthur recognized as Ari’s favorite from the album, “is amazing.”

                  “That’s Eames!” Her grin got even wider. “He’s fucking gorgeous, isn’t he?”

                  He was, was the problem. Big and broad and solid looking, and he really shouldn’t have been able to move like that, but he practically slithered around on the stage. As he sang, Arthur could feel every nerve in his body firing in response, because this Eames guy could sing like Arthur’d always wished he could. The only thing Arthur could say, the only way he could prevent himself from letting it all show, was, “Shitty keyboardist, though.”

As if he’d heard, the singer brought the song to an end. “We’re going to take a little break, but first, a cover.” Eames grinned, his smile dangerous and brilliant in the stage lights. “We don’t often do covers, but this is a special case.” He was shouting over the cheers, and his accent was proof positive that British accents make everything sound like sex. Arthur understood why Ari was so blindly devoted to this band that was, really, not all that much better than they were.

Arthur steeled himself for some abysmal pop hit, not even anything worth loving in your car alone, or maybe some Beatles tune to better emphasize the British connection. But instead – and really, he should have stopped underestimating this group much sooner – Eames pulled a harmonica out of a pocket and broke into the intro of “Heart of Gold.” Where he’d kept that harmonica in those skin-tight pants, Arthur couldn’t be sure. What mattered, though, was that Eames was singing, and whatever else Arthur might think of this mediocre-at-best dance group, Eames could clearly sing the socks off of anything he tried. Add in that Arthur harbored a not-so-secret fascination with Neil Young, and it was all over the moment Eames wailed, “It’s these expressions / I never give.”

\---

                  The ride home was very quiet, just the purring of Dom’s car and the sniffling snores from the backseat. Ari’s dark hair splayed over Yusuf’s shoulder, his arm tucked tentatively around her. Dom sat in the passenger seat, engrossed in something on his cell phone. And Arthur was half-consciously driving, thinking about the band.

                  Arthur was an adult, was the problem. A grown-up, with a job, a nine-to-five job he loved and was good at, even if no one really understood what he did. (If he had to explain it to Ari one more time…) _And that’s the difference_ , he thought, _the big difference between me and someone like Eames – well, one of the big differences_. See also: that Eames can sing, is British, is all brawny bulk to Arthur’s wiry frame, and is drop-dead sexy. But the big difference, the important one, was that Eames oozes stage presence, that Eames obviously and clearly wants nothing more than to be on stage, performing. Arthur had seen that in him, even in just that one show: the drive, the hunger for fame that Arthur had never had.

                  And so when Dom had asked, obliquely, why the band had never made it big, why despite their fan support and talent they’d never made an album past the live one, the one they’d unimaginatively named “Live at Sal’s,” Arthur hadn’t given the real answer, not exactly. Oh, he’d talked about their mid-level talent, their unoriginal style, his own poor vocals, everyone’s jobs and families and school and the sluggish music scene in town. But really, truly, it was Arthur. It was Arthur being perfectly content with his life: nine-to-five job five days a week, playing with the band three nights at Sal’s, weekends spent puttering around the house or babysitting his nieces or learning new covers or arguing with Ari about whatever they wanted to argue about that day. He liked his life, and he liked being who he was. Arthur never, ever hungered for more.

                  But as he thought more about it, about Eames and fame and money, and as he saw the way Yusuf glanced at Ari when she wasn’t looking, as he saw Ari snuggle up to the drummer in her sleep, as he saw Yusuf’s face light up with wonder. Well. Arthur was apparently the only one who didn’t want more from life. Even Dom, networking and schmoozing like his life depended on it: Dom wanted to be bigger, to be better, to be more than he was. The drive home seemed to take twice as long as the drive there for Arthur, lost in thought, dreaming about bigger things for the first time in his life.

\---

                  “I think we should play at the fest.”

                  Everyone stared.

                  “No, really, I do.” Arthur looked sheepish, as though he, too, was surprised by the words coming out of his mouth. “We can do it. Let’s do it.”

                  Ari piped up, suspicion written across her features. “Why?”

                  “Why not?” Arthur shrugged and leaned back in his chair, popping it up onto the back legs. He angled desperately for a lounging, sort of lackadaisical look, but Yusuf tapped the chair with his foot and ruined it, as usual, sending Arthur crashing back down. For once, Arthur’s patented death glare did absolutely nothing, and Yusuf grinned smugly, texting all the while.

                  “That’s not a reason,” Ari said through gritted teeth.

                  “Why are you being so resistant?” Dom asked.

                  “It doesn’t make any sense.” She turned, frowning. “We get asked to play at Hops Fest every year, and Arthur always says no because it’s a big party and he’s boring.”

                  “I’m not boring, it’s just that usually I have to work Friday morning.”

                  “Right, boring, like I said. So it’s weird that he’s all of a sudden into it.”

                  “I’m not _boring,_ Ari. I have a job—no. Never mind.” Arthur rubbed one hand through his hair. “Yeah, normally I work. But I have that Friday off this year, and I’d like to play in the fest. So let’s do it.”

                  Dom frowned at them all, and Arthur went still. He wasn’t doing this for him, not really, but it was important anyway. Ari always wanted to go, and Yusuf would do anything Ari wanted. And now Arthur was in, so all that was left was—

                  “All right. I’ll call the organizers, let them know. You,” he pointed at Ari and Arthur, “get cracking on a set. They’ll want covers from you, since Limbo’s playing. You’ll be opening, probably. Do things that don’t suck.”

                  As Dom strode away, Blackberry in hand, Ari waggled her eyebrows at Arthur. “What inspiring leadership, huh?”

                  “Yeah, ‘don’t suck’ is pretty profound.” They chuckled together and Arthur almost wasn’t worried for a while.

                  “But really, why are you into it now?” Ari didn’t look mad, at least, which was something to be grateful for. “I’m excited, but really. Why?”

                  Yusuf looked up from his phone and caught Arthur’s eye. The look they exchanged…well. It was certainly not casual. Yusuf was waiting for an answer, too.

                  Arthur shrugged, feigned a calm he didn’t feel. “Time to dream a little bigger, I guess.”

\---

                  There were a lot of reasons that Arthur never wanted to play Hops Fest. Working the next day had only ever been one of them. Another was that he didn’t actually enjoy drunken frat boys and their girlfriends howling “Free Bird!” at him in what they thought was an ironic tone. He didn’t actually like beer when it was served flat as hell at room temperature in cheap plastic cups. Most of all, he didn’t actually like opening for other bands. People ignored the openers, or talked through the whole set, or tried to angle their heads just right so they could see up Ari’s skirt. People were assholes, was the thing, and Arthur hated them.

                  All that aside, though, the set went pretty well. They did mostly covers, plus their one good original, and closed with “Short Skirt, Long Jacket,” which made Ari howl with laughter and almost erased all the other terrible things that had happened as they’d sweated and forced grins and gotten progressively drunker on the poor excuse for a main stage. As they trooped off, Arthur even heard a few cheers that were neither “Free Bird!” nor “You suck,” which made the whole thing almost worth it.

                  They passed Limbo on their way off the open-air stage, and Arthur was staggered to see that Eames up close was, one, even more gorgeous than he was on stage (not as glassily perfect, without all that stage makeup on, and his teeth were a little crooked, and his hair stuck out at awkward angles, and suddenly all Arthur wanted was to see what Eames looked like when he first woke up), and two, that Eames looked terribly nervous. “You all right?” he asked without thinking.

                  Eames met his eyes then, and seemed to shake, to settle a mask over his face. “Yeah, mate, no worries, just a touch of stage fright. Goes away once I’m up there.” With a nod, Eames stepped up onto the stage, bowed smartly to the applause, and started bantering with a row of drunks. The mask stayed on, and Arthur turned away, following the band to what the Fest called a “green room.”

                  “The Hops Fest Barmaids are unreasonably hot, by the by,” Ari said as she snagged a lukewarm beer from a passing dudebro.

                  Yusuf frowned as he sipped his own. “Of course they are. That’s how they get the job, no?”

                  “Great set, gang,” Dom slurred, because he had apparently gotten fucking _plastered_ on watery beer. His face was red and he just missed the folding chair, landed heavily on the sticky floor, and he laughed, high and carefree, and raised his half-full cup in salutation as Arthur broke into a high giggle. 

                  “By the way,” Ari said with a burp, “when Dom gets wasted he turns into Fred,”

                  “Fred who?” Yusuf was still nearly sober – his hipster pride and subsequent reluctance to drink shitty, shitty beer had come in handy for once.

                  “From the—“ Ari waved her hand, sloshing a little beer on the floor. “Never mind. Anyway. Arthur! They’re really good, right?”

                  “Yes, just like last time, they’re still really good.” Arthur frowned at the warm beer in his hand. “I hate Hops Fest.” It didn’t matter anyway, he reflected. This was the only Hops Fest they were likely to play, since they hadn’t quite set the world on fire.

                  Just then, the quality of sound from the stage changed. Arthur couldn’t quite make out the words, but Eames’s voice still sounded smooth and confident, like it had when the mask had dropped just before going on stage. Dom’s ears, apparently, worked better than Arthur’s, though, because it was Dom who heard,

                  “Let’s bring them back out, we’ll do a duet, don’t you think, loves? Inception, get your arses back on stage!”

                  They looked at each other. Yusuf was a bit wasted, Ari was drunk, and Arthur…”Okay, fine. You all owe me, and I hate you, but fine.” He made his way out, picking his steps carefully.

                  When he emerged on stage, the lights blinded him a bit. Normally that didn’t happen, but he hadn’t noticed the sun going down while he was fiddling with warm beer and listening to Ari slur jokes about Scooby Doo. He blinked once, twice, hard, so hard that his eyes blurred a little and it took a few seconds for them to clear up. When they did, he saw Eames, basking in light, grinning like a fool.

                  “Arthur, love, hello! Where’s the rest of your band?” Eames nodded toward a second microphone, and the words rose unbidden to Arthur’s throat.

                  “Oh, you know. Keeping an eye on the gear, hitting on beer wenches, the usual.” The crowd laughed. Arthur smirked, realizing instantly which role to play opposite Eames’s sleazy smiling charm. “So you just get me, Mr. Eames.”

                  “Mm, well, that’s all I need.” Eames winked, grinned even wider somehow. “What shall we sing, then? One of ours?”

                  “Afraid I don’t know any of your songs. Not really my style.” Arthur bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing at the delight on Eames’s face.

                  “Ouch, Arthur, your condescension wounds me. Then let’s do an oldie but a goodie. You can play a proper chord, can’t you?”

                  “I can play anything you give me, Mr. Eames.”

                  Eames wiggled his eyebrows and muttered to the bassist, and the song began. Arthur kept biting his cheeks, because seriously? Really? “Didn’t figure you for a Dolly fan.”

                  “Never judge a book by his cover, love. Shall we?”

\---

                  “That was incredible!” The bassist, a tall, skinny scarecrow of a man, shouted into Arthur’s ear. Limbo, it turned out, had much better liquor on their bus, and Arthur had taken advantage of the fact, but not as much as the two bands’ bassists. Ari slurred, staggered, slammed into the violinist (who was, Arthur admitted to himself, absolutely gorgeous; French and red-lipped and dangerous in a way he couldn’t immediately identify). They clutched each other, used the other as a leaning post, laughed. Everything seemed to be glowing, hazy, and Arthur could feel the dimples appearing on his own cheeks, as much as he tried to stop them.

                  A warm hand settled on his cheek, right where he knew a dimple was deepening (he couldn’t stop grinning, felt so happy, not his usual content-Zen state after a concert, just _happy_ in a way that didn’t usually happen to him). “Pet, you look happy! I’ve never seen you look happy.”

                  “I am happy, Eames. Things went well, right?” He turned to look at Eames, whose face seemed to be a lot closer to him than expected. “Oh, hey, you’re right there, aren’t you?”

                  “Yes, I am.” Eames looked serene, like everything was perfect, and Arthur knew what was coming before it happened.

                  The other man leaned in, one hand still on Arthur’s cheek. Without realizing it, because of beer and warmth and the aforementioned unusual sensation of being happy, Arthur closed his eyes, leaned forward, met Eames halfway.

\---

                  Dom had different styles of pacing. One for being angry (a steady, slow walk, heel-to-toe, as if he was taking a field sobriety test), one for being nervous (dragging his feet, wandering), and, apparently, one for being excited: he was nearly running, in a straight line beginning at the stairs and ending at the bathroom. Arthur thought when he walked in, for just a moment, that Dom was running to the bathroom for some kind of emergency.

                  “Arthur! You’re late!” Dom’s voice was squeaky, and Arthur had to use every ounce of self-preservation instinct and discipline to not giggle, because _squeaky_! “You’re late, and I have news, and we can’t talk about it until you’re here!”

                  “Well,” Arthur said, settling in beside a clearly hung over Ari on the couch, “I’m here now. What’s up?”

                  Yusuf (who had apparently fallen down and decided not to get back up) called, “Where were you? We looked for you, mate, and you weren’t there. Ari made me drive her home.”

                  “You were sober. Or, like, kind of sober. Anyway. Shhhh.” Ari’s eyes were hidden behind the bug-like sunglasses Arthur had seen on the French violinist the night before, and Arthur was pretty sure that the mark on her neck was a hickey.

                  “Did you sleep with the violin player?” The question popped out before he could stop himself. He cringed, because he was asking for,

                  “Did you sleep with the singer?” she volleyed back.

                  “I don’t care who slept with whom.” Dom’s voice was soft, quiet, and strangely terrifying. They all shut up. “Limbo’s manager called me this morning. Browning’s an old guy, and he’s tired, and he wants to retire. He’s offered me a job.”

                  “That’s, uh, I mean, that’s great, Dom. We’ll miss you, I guess, but,” Yusuf babbled from the floor.

                  “Yusuf, shut up.” Ari and Arthur spoke in unison.

                  “Yes, well.” Dom had clearly lost his place in the speech he’d planned out. Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as the older man waved a hand idly, seeming to be grasping for his next word in a literal sense. “We decided to transition slowly. I’ll keep managing you, and over time I’ll take over for Limbo, too.”

                  “How? They’re touring Eastern Europe this summer.” Of course Ari knew Limbo’s tour schedule. Of _course_. “I mean, we’re not touring or whatever, so go for it, but you’d be out of the country.”

                  “Yeah, what if we needed you?” It was hard to tell if Yusuf was joking or not: he had rolled over, and the muffling effect of the concrete floor made him ever harder to read than normal.

                  “That’s the beauty of it!” Dom didn’t quite rub his hands together in glee, but he clearly wanted to do so. “We’ll go on tour with them, as their opening band!”

                  Everything stopped for a moment.

                  “Awesome!”

                  “What?!”

“No!”

Dom looked confused.

Arthur said again, “No! I mean, that’s awesome, and it’s great and everything, but I can’t. I have a job!”

                  Dom opened his mouth to shout, but stopped. Ari lifted her sunglasses (the French woman’s sunglasses, Arthur reminded himself). Her eyes were red, puffed, and sad. Yusuf lifted his head from the concrete, his face creased and stippled from the surface.

                  Everyone stared.

                  “I mean, I just—“

                  Ari cut him off. “No, no, duh, obviously. We kind of forgot. We’re sorry, that was—“

                  “Yeah,” Yusuf pushed himself up to a sitting position, “Arthur, we were being selfish, of course you have a job, you can’t just leave for the summer.”

                  “Right,” Dom said. He was the only one not hiding his crestfallen expression (not that Arthur couldn’t see it on the faces of Ari and Yusuf, but Dom wasn’t even trying). “Well. That makes things more complicated, because Eames apparently specifically requested that Inception open for them.”

                  Everyone stared for a while longer, the silence growing oppressive and thick.

\---

                  Arthur hung up. He turned to the band. He grinned. “Boss said yes. We’re going to…Where are we going, Dom?”

                  “Paris, to meet up with Browning, and then Kenya to do a photoshoot. And then eighteen cities in Eastern Europe.”

                  “We’re going to Paris!”

\---

                  The plane on the runway was small, sleek, and fucking gorgeous. Eames? Well, two out of three ain’t bad. He was wearing sunglasses, poorly fitted khakis, and a smirk Arthur couldn’t decide if he wanted to slap or kiss off of Eames’s face.

                  As Arthur and the band approached, Eames slid his sunglasses down. “Pet! You’re here!”

                  “Eames.” Arthur smiled, took his place in the plane. Through the open door, he could hear Eames greeting the rest of the band:

                  “Ari, you minx, give us a kiss! Mal’s sitting in the back if you want to join her, eh? Yusuf, you bastard, try to cheat next time we’re playing gin and I’ll bash your – no, card counting _is_ cheating, arse!” Arthur nearly lost it when he heard Eames mutter, “Dom,” and saw him duck into the plane.

                  “You hate Dom, don’t you?” Arthur asked as Eames settled in across the aisle.

                  “Everyone hates Dom.”

                  “Fair enough.” Arthur settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.

                  “Here we go, then, love.” Eames said softly as the plane’s engines roared to life. 

**Author's Note:**

> [title from "Heart of Gold" by Neil Young]


End file.
